


The Demons Beneath

by yuliaplisetskaya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drugs, M/M, Non canon-compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 20:12:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8910424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuliaplisetskaya/pseuds/yuliaplisetskaya
Summary: Oxford was never this bleak.





	

> _"As I look back at our past together with her,_
> 
> _suddenly she starts to disappear._
> 
> _Maybe she never really existed."_
> 
> Halsey - Ghost

 

Oxford was never this bleak.  
  
True, the ancient towers and mouldy structure get old after a while, but it's constantly moving. Come the break of the dawn there's a mop of ginger hair that shakes William off his sleep and snaps him out of his half-dreaming stupor, continued by an incessant tenor nagging him to eat his breakfast, "just an egg and few bits of toast, please, Will?". At night there is the soft moonlight that hits Victor's face just right; with no one to witness, one small movement is all it takes and they'll meet each other halfway.  
  
He's getting sentimental, and it's not good. More than a bit not good. William realises he's been living in a glass-case fairytale and now it's time for the bubble to pop.  
  
The rain soaks his perfectly styled curls into floppy tufts that jut out to every direction. Dolce and Gabbana shirts aren't made for dire outdoor situations, but he has no choice. With Victor six feet under, his clothing is the only armour he's ever going to get. He hugs himself, teeth clattering loudly, and gnashes the dark cloud inside his heart until it's intangible.  
  
***  
  
Once, Victor was all William ever knew.  
  
At the end of his Upper Sixth Michaelmas half he dragged himself back home, licking his wound (not quite metaphorically). There was a bruise forming near his shin, and it would have healed nicely had the new neighbour's son's feral dog not launched itself happily onto his leg and broke the skin there.  
  
He spewed profanities he never actually had a taste for and fell to the ground. The owner had the decency to look ashamed and proferred a hand to help him up. As time went, the help became more, in the sense that Victor spent more time listening to William's rambling, gave more hand to William's playing mad scientist in his backyard, gathered more branches so William could set things on fire. Victor said things like wonderful and brilliant and none of those sounded like freak and arsehole and faggot and sometimes William wished everyone who went to his school was Victor.  
  
***  
  
Mycroft offers him an umbrella. He doesn't know where it comes from. He doesn't know where Mycroft comes from. It seems to be Mycroft's wont these days, to appear and disappear and reappear out of thin air from sheer willpower.  
  
He turns the offer down. Mycroft insists. He refuses again, this time rather loudly. The Minister stops the prayer and shoots him a reprimanding glare. He ignores him and elects to kick the tree next to him.  
  
It's not fair, he thinks, that someone as cheerful as Victor should end up in a boring gathering where everyone wears his least favourite colour. Victor positively loathed every black piece of fabric that William stores in his wardrobe. If he were here, Victor would insist on redressing him entirely into something more presentable, something that doesn't remind him of Count Dracula or other depressing figures from Gothic literature.  
  
William barks out a laughter, but it comes dry, stopped short in his throat by constrictive emptiness and what he suspects to be welling tears.  
  
***  
  
Mycroft is shite at comforting people.  
  
All William wants to do now is flop down on his bed and sleep the day away, willing reality to be fictitious, but Mycroft perches at the small chair next to the window and refuses to move until he finishes his speech about the merits of sentiment. Caring is not an advantage. All lives end.  
  
He points out that it was Victor,  not Mycroft, who saved him from Wilkes's unwanted advances last term. He also points out that when Mycroft has decided to stop being a fat hypocrite, the door is over there by the kitchenette.  
  
When he realises that the room is chock full of Victor's scent and bright smiles and the feel of Victor's soft fingertips against his, he runs out.  
  
***  
  
As if sensing the absence of his master, Redbeard passes away two weeks later.

William doesn't have any energy left to grieve, so he chainsmokes instead.  
  
***  
  
"I did warn you, brother dear,"  
  
The room is dingy, with stained windows and creaking floorboards. There's a sofa with missing springs at one side and a scrawny man sprawled on it. The tourniquet on his arm flips weakly as he shrugs.  
  
"I believe Mr. Trevor would not have approved of your approach to handle your feelings,"  
  
"But that's the fucking problem, Mycroft," William chokes out. "That's all he's ever going to be now--projection of his past, nonexistent self into current situations. Nothing but a memory. He's gone and his opinion shouldn't matter anymore."  
  
The tears come freely now. "He shouldn't matter anymore. But he does. Why does he still, Mycroft?"  
  
"Oh, Will," says Mycroft, "Let's get out of here,"  
  
***  
  
"How are you holding up, then, William?"  
  
He heaves a breath. One, two. In, out. "It's Sherlock now,"  
  
Mycroft doesn't miss a beat. "How are you holding up, then, Sherlock?"  
  
He stands up straight, buttons his pristine suit jacket, face stony and undeterred as he stares ahead. "Fine. Never better."


End file.
